


Close

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Crossing Orbits [3]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young can't quite articulate the ways in which his relationship with Rush is changing.  All he knows is that Rush is drawing too close for comfort, and a collision is imminent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third installment in my Crossing Orbits series. You don't necessarily need to have read [Breakable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1679537) or [Steady](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1707272) to enjoy this fic, but some things will make more sense if you've at least read _Steady_.

Your eyes are like a shot of the best whiskey.  Rich and dark and so damn smooth that the finishing flare of heat almost takes me by surprise.  I've always thought you had the face of a rascal, and your acquisition of copious scruff and wild-man hair has done nothing to dispel my first impression.  But your eyes are a different story.  Those eyes conceal secrets and intrigues, but they also reveal truths.  Sometimes, when in an experimental mood, I drop my guard and give into their gravitational pull, but only for a moment.  Because then they go flat and hard, shutting me down and closing me out so fast that I can almost hear the audible hum of your personal shields engaging. 

And that's how I know that _you_ know that something has changed between us, and maybe it scares and tempts you as much as it scares and tempts me.  But we're not going to talk about it, because we don't have words for this.  Whatever new force has entered our lives, we don't speak its language.  So we're not going to try.  Instead, we're going to keep moving in circles, our orbits shrinking, tempting fate with every close encounter.  Because every once in a while, you put yourself on the line out of conviction rather than necessity, and as for me… well, we're both acquainted with my instinct to fall upon my sword when the situation calls for it, and even sometimes when it doesn't.  We're not hotheads, you and I, but both of us know how to take calculated risks.  And this… this is a risk.

I don't know how it begins, not exactly.  I only know how I become aware of it.  It happens when we're meeting with Camile in my quarters.  Our little council of three is functioning as I never would have thought possible a few years ago.  A low current of tension is still perceptible at times, but we work through it because we have no better alternative.  Camile is sitting on my couch, her posture relaxed.  She's been talking about crew morale, which never ceases to be a concern.  You're standing across from her with your left side propped against the wall, arms folded over your chest.  You look bored, but you're present, which is about all I can ask for.

Then Camile makes a small quip that is so effortless in its delivery, so perfect in its brevity, so pointed in its cynicism, that it startles a short, sharp laugh out of you.  That sound goes through me like an electric shock.  It's so bright and clear that it fills up the room like sunlight, and I'm completely dazzled.  After I blink away my surprise, you catch my eye.  You lift one eyebrow, and your lips twitch in unmistakable amusement.  For a second I'm confused, because Camile's little scrap of wit wasn't at my expense.  Then I realize that you're looking at me, not because you're laughing at me, but because you're inviting me to share the joke.  We're having a moment.  We're forging a connection over a bit of throw-away humor, and I don't know what to make of it.  Because we're not friends.  We've never been friends.

Camile talks on, oblivious to my momentary distraction, and you soon go back to contemplating the bare walls of my room as if you're wishing for a piece of chalk with which to deface them.  I follow the conversation but I don't add much to it.  I'm too busy coming to the realization that I like your weasel's face more than I thought, and as for your eyes… well.  I like them very much.  Maybe a little too much.


	2. Chapter 2

I wish I had the power to know what is in your head at any given moment.  I don't want your running inner monologue.  Fuck, no.  That would be terrifying.  But now and then I do wish that I could open you up just for a second and take a peek inside.  Is your mind a library, quiet and excruciatingly organized, or is it a maze, twisting and overgrown and navigable only by yourself?  Is it an ocean, with its changeable surface and its deep, unearthly secrets, or is it the night sky, all clustered points of light suspended amidst a dark void?  I don't know.  For all we've been through together and all we've done to each other, I still can't say that I really know you.  But I want to.  More and more, I want to.

My curiosity about your mind increases with every encounter.  You do love to keep me guessing, don't you?  Every day is a new surprise, a new puzzle, a new set of questions.  If only the answers came as easily.  But I'm learning.  I'm taking it one day at a time, trying not to invest too much in this new mental exercise and trying not to take too much pleasure in this new sense of awareness.  Just one day at a time.  Because sometimes, a few minutes spent with you can give me enough food for thought for the rest of the day, and then some.

Case in point:

I'm sitting in the mess, staring into a bowl of yellow-tinged ooze and trying not to think about that time I overheard Dr. Park cheerfully remark that it reminded her of pus.  How she manages to sound so upbeat when making comments like that, I'll never know.  I just wish I could get the resulting image out of my head, because my healing abdominal wound already makes it difficult to keep food down and that revolting comparison isn't helping matters.

Fortunately for my digestion, Chloe and Lt. Scott are providing a welcome distraction.  They are seated across the table, and Scott is complaining half-heartedly over the fact that Chloe just snuck the last pseudo-strawberry from his bowl.  Chloe waves the strawberry under his nose tantalizingly and then pops it into her mouth with a satisfied grin. 

"Did you see that, Colonel?" Scott asks in mock outrage.

"I have a feeling you deserved that for some reason or other," I tell him, glancing down into my bowl and wishing I could exchange its contents for the solid foods that all crewmembers _without_ abdominal injuries are currently enjoying.

Scott doesn't reply.  I look up to find that both Chloe and Scott are gazing at something just beyond my left shoulder.  Then I feel someone slide onto the bench beside me. 

I don't have to look.  Somehow, I know it's you.  But _why_ , out of all the empty seats in the mess, you chose the one next to me, I can't fathom.  Judging by the identical nonplussed expressions that Chloe and Scott are currently sporting, they can't either.

"Good morning, Dr. Rush," Chloe says after a slight pause. 

"Yes, morning," you say in a rueful tone, making it sound more like a concession than a greeting.

I finally turn to look at you, taking in your lank hair, bloodshot eyes, and general air of exhaustion.  You idiot.

"You just pulled another twenty-four hour shift, didn't you?" Chloe asks.

"Mmm," you mumble vaguely in reply between spoonfuls of the same slop that I've been trying to choke down for the past ten minutes.  No strawberries for you, apparently.  But then, you've never seemed to care about or even notice your food.  You eat quickly and efficiently because your body requires it, and then you go back to work.  Sometimes you don't even bother to sit down. 

Which brings me back to my burning curiosity about what goes on in that head of yours.  Why are you beside me, so close that your sleeve brushes against mine every time you lift your spoon to your mouth, acting as if this is an ordinary, everyday occurrence?  Why would you deliberately expose yourself to my company when we've always abided by an unspoken policy of mutual avoidance whenever possible?

Chloe launches into what sounds like a well-worn lecture on sleep and its status as a basic human need, contrary to the apparent convictions of one temperamental Scottish scientist who will almost certainly work himself into an early grave at some point in the near future, which will, quite frankly, be _incredibly_ selfish considering said scientist's importance to the fate of the ship and its crew.  With a level of tolerance you would never dream of showing anyone else, you placidly eat your breakfast and allow Chloe's words to wash over you without comment.

Meanwhile, I watch you eat, becoming oddly fascinated by the way your lips close around your spoon.  At first I'm able to persuade myself that my interest is solely rooted in my confusion over how in god's name you can eat that stuff without exhibiting the smallest sign of disgust.  But then your tongue darts out to lick your lips, and I suddenly have difficulty catching my breath, and I know that my fascination has nothing to do with your food and everything to do with your goddamn _mouth_.

You must feel my eyes on you, because you pause with the spoon halfway to your lips and shoot a questioning look in my direction.  "Something wrong, Colonel?" you ask, interrupting Chloe.

Fortunately for my composure, your general state of exhaustion becomes even more evident once your face is turned toward me, so it's relatively easy to steer my libidinous thoughts onto much safer ground.  "Yeah," I answer, because I can see that the lines around your eyes are heavily exaggerated, and your forehead seems to have acquired a permanent furrow.  It's been a while since I've seen you look this haggard, and those memories aren't pleasant ones.  "You look like hell, Rush."

"Ah," you say and turn back to your meal, apparently reassured.

"Dr. Rush," Chloe begins again, "chronic sleep deprivation can lead to–"

"Yes, Chloe, I heard you the first time," you cut in wearily.  "Memory loss, seizures, heart disease…"

"Psychosis," Scott adds helpfully.

You fix Scott with an unimpressed stare.  "Do you think I'm psychotic, Lt. Scott?"

"Don't answer that," I advise.

"I wasn't gonna," Scott says with a dubiously successful attempt to suppress a smile. 

You sigh and let your spoon fall into your bowl with a clatter.  "Well, this has been a pleasure.  Let's do it again sometime," you mutter, standing up. 

As you begin to slide out from between the table and bench, I reach out and snag your wrist.  I don't know why I do it.  Past events have taught me that touching you is a Bad Thing and will not go down well.  But although you stiffen slightly, the look you give me is more curious than affronted.

" _Bed_ ," I say firmly.

This friendly piece of advice has a startling effect on you.  Okay, in retrospect, not _that_ startling, but I'm not prepared for your reaction at the time.  Your whole body jerks as if you've been struck, and then you stare at me as if I was the one doing the hitting.  "I _beg_ your pardon?" you sputter.

Oh dear _lord_.

I hastily let go of your wrist.  " _Go_ to bed," I clarify, having to exert more effort than usual to keep a straight face.

Your shocked expression switches off like a light, leaving your face completely blank.  Then the air of staggering weariness returns, seeping back into your eyes and weighing down your shoulders.  "Of course.  That's what I was…"  You wave vaguely back over your shoulder in the general direction of the doorway.  Then you seize your bowl and disentangle yourself from the bench with more grace than you ought to be capable of at your current level of exhaustion.  You turn in your half-empty bowl to Airman Becker without a word and head for the door.

There is complete silence at the table for several long moments after you've left.  Then Scott rubs his jaw thoughtfully and says to Chloe, "That's gotta be more than twenty-four hours.  What do you figure?"

Chloe sighs and pushes herself to her feet.  "Definitely.  That's more in the forty-eight to sixty range."  She climbs over the bench and gestures toward the doorway.  "I'm going to go and make sure he… you know.   Makes it."

She leaves, and Scott departs for his shift a few minutes later.  I'm left with my unappetizing breakfast and a few new pieces of information to add to my puzzle.  One mystery has been solved, or so I think.  Your sitting beside me must have been a fluke, the result of your fatigue-induced delirium.  I'm sure it won't happen again. 

Definitely not.

The very next day, same time, same table, same bowl of pus, someone slides onto the bench beside me.  I don't have to look to know that it's you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated. And be sure to come visit me on [tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

There are disadvantages to spending so much of my time contemplating your various physical and mental attributes.  These days, even when I'm not actively thinking about you, you're still hovering in the back of my mind awaiting the opportunity to derail my concentration.  Anything can trigger it.  Vague memories, nebulous emotions, fleeting sensations; _anything_ can snap you back into the center of my focus.  When I close my eyes, I see your outline like burn-in on a screen, and when I sleep, your ghost follows me into my dreams. 

In a perfect universe, those dreams would be pleasurable ones.  I spend enough time thinking about your whiskey eyes and your sensuous mouth and your lithe, restless body during my waking hours.  Some of that erotic energy ought to bleed over into my sleep, but when have I ever been so lucky?  And when has my subconscious ever been so tractable?  Oh, no.  These aren't that sort of dream at all.

First, all I know is pain.  Screaming, burning, Technicolor _pain_.  Then I see you, standing in the shadow of an alien spacecraft, gazing down at me.  I'm lying in the dust on a planet we left behind so long ago – that barren world where I left _you_ behind – and there's a smoking, bleeding hole in my gut.  And you're just... watching me die.

I knew this day would come. I _knew_ it would end like this.  Past misdeeds never stay in the past.  They always take their revenge one way or another.  And when the only person who can save me is the man I once refused to save, how can I possibly expect this to end any other way but in my death?

You crouch in the dust beside me and I feel your fingers slide through my hair.  Your smile is a stranger's smile.  Not the wry quirk of the lips that comes to you so readily, nor the sunlit grin that I've seen burst upon your face in rare moments of joy.  It's not the wavering, almost tender expression that only a select few get to see, nor the easy look of enjoyment that you wore in Dr. Perry's company.  This is a different kind of smile.  This is both serene and triumphant, and thoroughly unlike you.  And the touch of your fingers over my scalp is so gentle and lover-like that it makes my skin crawl, because that's not like you either.  Everything about this, everything about _you_ , is wrong.

And then I realize as you brush my hair back from my forehead that your hands... your hands are clean _._   No blood.  Is it strange that _that_ is the thing I find most terrifying in all of this?  Your hands are clean, and I know that, too, is wrong.

"Please, Rush," I gasp.  It hurts to talk.  It hurts to breathe.  It hurts to _think_.  My instincts are telling me that I can't reason with this alien version of you, but I have to try.  Communication has been our salvation in the past.  It might not be too late, even now.  "You don't have to do this."

"Shh..." You stroke your thumb across my temple soothingly.  Your smile is so kind, so peaceful, so eerie.  I've never seen you look so frighteningly well-adjusted in the whole span of our tumultuous relationship.  "That's why it's perfect," you murmur.  "I don't have to do anything."

I avert my eyes from your hovering face, unable to stomach the view for another second.  I thought I knew rock bottom.  I thought I was acquainted with darkness and desolation and endless cold that cannot be dispelled because it comes from within.  But I guess it's always possible to fall farther and sink deeper.  So this is what despair tastes like: dust in my mouth and fire in my lungs and the metallic tang of blood in my nostrils.  And while you loom over me like the most innocuous-looking angel of death in the known universe, I am tormented by the knowledge that this is what I deserve.

Overhead, the light is dying, and the wide open sky is tinged with gray.   Perhaps that's just the color bleeding out of my vision, turning everything stark and ashen.

I feel your lips brush against the shell of my ear and hear you whisper, "We're done."  You pat my cheek affectionately, and then you draw back and climb to your feet.  When I look up at you, I find that you've turned toward the horizon.  Toward the Stargate that I know lies only a short distance away.  Toward my last hollow hope for survival.

"Rush!" I call out, desperate and horrified and so fucking afraid.

"Goodbye, Colonel," you say.  Then you disappear from my field of vision, and I'm alone with the pain.

 

* * *

 

Awareness returns with your voice in my ears and your hand on my shoulder.  I open my eyes to see your face hovering close, your expression a blend of curiosity and concern.  In that moment, all I can focus on is the fact that you're here.  You came back for me.  And I'm not going to let you walk away again.  Acting on a heady mix of instinct and fear, I seize your forearm in a brutally tight grip.

You wince slightly, but you don't try to pull away.  "Colonel, do you know where you are?"

I think so?  But I can no longer taste dust in my mouth, and there is only a faint echo of pain in my gut, and you are not looking ominously pleased, or unnaturally calm, or inhumanly normal. You look like yourself: scruffy, overworked, underfed, and on the wrong side of 50. 

"Rush?"  My voice is roughened and my throat feels like I've gargled razorblades.  Have I been shouting?

The corners of your mouth twitch in what might be a poor attempt at a reassuring smile. "Yes," you say quietly, and your voice sounds just a touch strained. "You're all right.  You're on Destiny."  You cover my hand with your own, but you make no effort to pry my fingers free from your arm.  "You can let go now."

"Don't leave," I insist.

Your brows draw together in confusion.  "Okay."

I relax my grip and let you unwrap my fingers from your forearm.  Your skin is blanched white in the shape of my hand.  "Shit," I mutter, looking away. 

My heart is still pounding a little too fast and my breathing still feels a bit too labored, but I'm slowly starting to come back to myself and get my bearings.  I'm seated on a bench in the shower room, fully dressed with the exception of my boots.  One boot is on but only half-laced, and the other is lying on the floor next to my foot.  I remember taking a shower and beginning to dress afterward, but I must have nodded off in the process. 

"Shit," I say again, because I feel that it bears repeating.  And then, glancing back up at you, I add, "I'm sorry."

You pause in the act of rubbing your abused arm to wave away my apology.  "Hardly the worst damage you've done me, Colonel.  I think I'll survive."

I wonder if that was supposed to be comforting.  Always hard to tell with you.

There's an awkward silence.  I finish putting on my boots for the sake of having something to do, but you just stand there watching me like there's something you want to say and you don't know if you should.  I know that feeling and it sucks, but I'm not going to help you out.  A conversation with you is not really what I'm looking for at the moment.  On the other hand, I did just make you promise not to leave.

You break the silence suddenly.  "I hate it," you hiss.  I jerk my head up in surprise.  You have a grim little smile on your lips, and you're looking at some point on the wall behind me.  "That moment when you come awake and you can't untangle the nightmares from reality.  You can't tell what's real and what isn't.  It's worse than the nightmares themselves.  Sometimes it's worth it to abstain from sleep entirely to avoid the necessity of waking."

I examine your expression curiously, but you're not giving much away.  Still, I think that little confession cost you something. 

"Not exactly a viable long-term plan," I say quietly.  "Eventually you end up falling asleep in some random corner of the ship and the dreams come anyway, as I've just demonstrated.  How did you find me, anyway?"

Your eyes meet mine briefly, then dart away again.  Your posture has gone noticeably rigid.  "I was passing through the hall outside when I heard you call my name."

"And you actually came when summoned," I say dryly. "That would be a first."

Judging by your reaction, that was the wrong thing to say.  "It sounded urgent," you snap, fixing me with a resentful look.  Your eyes have gone a bit wild.  "In fact, it sounded like you were _dying_ , so _yes_ , I thought it might be a good idea to investigate."

I suspect your sudden irritation has less to do with anything I've done and more to do with your own responses to me.  You don't appreciate finding yourself in this situation.  You don't like… what?  Worrying about me?  That's it, isn't?  Oh, Rush.  I can't help you there, but I can at least sympathize.

"Well," I point out, "I'm not dying."

You seem to deflate all at once, bowing your head so that your hair falls over your face and I can't make out your expression.  "No.  No, you're not."

"Thanks,"  I say, and I'm not sure whether I'm thanking you for waking me up just now, or for saving my life back in those god-forsaken ruins.  Both, I suppose.  But you never seem to want my thanks.  You always brush it off with a shrug or a change of subject.  A man of your sizeable ego should learn to accept genuine gratitude with a little grace.

"If you don't need me, I'll be going now," you mutter, snapping your head up and giving it a shake to fling your hair out of your eyes.

"No, that's fine,"  I say, since this brief chat has been more than usually awkward, and I could really use some time for reflection. 

You nod tightly and start to turn away, but something makes you to hesitate.  Your expression is… odd.   Laced with confusion, maybe even a hint of fear, and some other emotion that I can't quite identify.  You face me again as if you can't help yourself – as if you're itching to walk away but there's something inside you that won't allow it.  And then you move even closer, so that I have to tilt my head straight back to look into your face.  I wait, feeling breathless and bewildered and a little excited.  You're close.  So close. 

You swallow, then make some vague gesture toward your own face that I can't quite interpret.  "You have…" you start to say, but you let the sentence trail away.  As I watch expectantly, your eyes rove restlessly over my face in a way that is not quite comfortable. 

I'm too focused on your eyes to see your hands reaching toward me, so your touch on my cheeks comes as a surprise.  I go completely still.  I'm afraid to breathe.  I'm afraid that at the smallest hint of movement from me, you'll shy away like a high-strung colt, and I will lose this moment.  You stroke your thumbs across my cheeks, and that's when I realize that you're rubbing away a dampness that I had not even been aware of before now.  Something tightly bound within my chest uncouples and slides apart, and I let out a long, slow breath.  _Jesus._   How long has it been since I've had someone to wipe away my tears for me? 

Your thumbs linger on my cheeks for just a few seconds longer than necessary, and then you withdraw them.  Your eyes won't meet mine.  "Better not let anyone see that," you whisper by way of explanation.

But you saw it.  Aren't you the last person I would ever want to see me in a vulnerable moment?  And yet all I feel right now is a sort of inner quiet, as if the seething, battered creature which lives just under my skin has been soothed.  I want to thank you, but I won't, because I know you don't want to hear it.  Instead, I just nod.

I can see the struggle playing out across your face, the desire to stay warring with the instinct to escape.  I wish you would just go.  If you stay, I might do something that I'm not sure we're ready for.  Maybe we'll never be ready for it.  I'm not sure how you prepare for a collision on that scale.  But I do know that right now, you're too close.  You need to go.

"I'm going to…" you murmur, and then you finish with a vague wave of your hand.

"Yeah," I say, clasping my hands in my lap to keep from reaching for you.

You look over your shoulder toward the doorway and then back at me, as if you're still feeling torn.  "You should get some rest."

"Mmm," I reply noncommittally. "You should take your own advice."

Your lips twitch into a brief, rueful half-smile.  "Sometimes I do," you say.  You take a step back, and another.  You open your mouth as if to make another comment, but you seem to think better of it and press your lips together thoughtfully.  Then you abruptly turn away and stride out of the room.

I let out a soft groan and close my eyes.  This is getting out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated. And be sure to come visit me on [tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

I always figure things out too late.  That's my life story in a single sentence. 

I married a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman and then spent the better part of our marriage a galaxy away.  I was in love with the stars, and my mind was too full of the sights and sounds and scents of other worlds to leave room in it for her.   I let myself forget the way her hair looked when she got caught in a storm, all frizzy and windblown.  I forgot that hazy look in her eyes before her first cup of coffee in the morning.  I didn't know what books she liked to read, or what movies she went to see, or what songs she listened to.  I think she told me her favorite flower once, but I let that memory slip away too. 

She wanted me to come home to stay, but I couldn't seem to settle.  There was always another mission, another off-world post, another adventure, and Emily's needs always came second to mine.  And then, there was TJ, and Emily's needs came second to hers, too.  That continued right up until the day I took one gate trip too many, right across the universe.  And that's when all the memories came flooding back.  The way Emily used to sing country ballads in the shower when she thought I wasn't home.  The way she ate her food, always starting on the left side of her plate and working her way right, as if eating was just like reading a book.  The way she looked on our wedding day, with lilies in her hair and starlight in her eyes.  And that's when I knew I'd lost the one thing in my life that I wouldn't be whole without.

It happened again when I left you on that planet.  I let the rage take over and blot out everything else.  I reached down into a place so dark and deep within my soul that I hadn't even known it existed, and I set the very worst version of myself free.  And it felt _good_ , Rush.  For a moment, standing over your still form, I felt like I had done something right.  Like I had restored order to a universe gone mad.  And so I just walked away.  It wasn't until I stepped through the Stargate that I was hit with the full force of what I had done.  What I had become.

And along those same lines, I didn't know what TJ's baby – what _our_ baby – meant to me until we lost her.  I didn't know she was the little spark of hope I was holding onto just to stay sane through some of the darkest moments of my life.  I didn't know how much I wanted to reach out to TJ, to bond with her over this shared responsibility, to build a new future together around the precious life which linked us.  But I kept my distance and ended up losing both of them in different ways.

I always figure things out too late.  I ought to paint those words on my ceiling so they're the last thing I see before I close my eyes each night and the first thing I see when I open them each morning.  Maybe then I'll finally learn not to take anything for granted.

Which brings me to today.  You are currently with the away team on a planet that was once used as an outpost for a moderately advanced race of aliens.  The aliens seemed to have moved on, which is fortunate for us since our track record on alien encounters is pretty abysmal.  I know you're hoping to uncover some interesting tech or at least some raw materials for repairs to Destiny, which is why you wanted to be on the team.  Hopefully, you'll find something useful and we can mark this down as one of our rare successes.  I'm feeling reasonably optimistic.

I ought to know better.

The first chill of foreboding runs down my spine as the Stargate activates unexpectedly.  The team hasn't been gone long, and Scott isn't due for a check-in for at least another twenty minutes.  It could be nothing terribly urgent, or it could be the start of one of those epic shitstorms that we seem so prone to wander into by mistake.

I'm in the gate room with Brody when the radio transmission comes through.  "Colonel," Scott says breathlessly, and yeah, it's definitely something urgent, "We need a kino sled, stat.  We got to get Rush to the infirmary, and he's not making it easy to carry him."

Your name registers like a needle prick, sharp but brief.  It's not important, not in this moment when action is required.  It will become important later, when the delayed fear flows like poison through my veins.  I know how this works.  I've been through it too many times before.

I turn toward Brody, but he's already on his way out of the room to fetch the kino sled.  "Copy that," I tell Scott.  "The sled's on its way.  Where are you, and what else do you need?"

"I'm at the base of the gate.  The others are on their way.  Just send the sled through and I'll take it from there.  And keep the path to the infirmary clear," Scott says.  "We have to move quickly.  Rush's pulse is erratic and he can't breathe.  TJ says it's anaphylactic shock.  She had an EpiPen in her kit, but it doesn't seem like it was enough.  It was expired, anyway."

Jesus, Rush.  Only you could survive getting marooned on a barren planet, getting taken by aliens, waking up during open-heart surgery, capture by the Lucian Alliance, a face-off with a highly trained killer, and self-experimentation in a dangerous and poorly understood Ancient device, and then fall victim to your own body's overzealous immune response.  Only you could be that fucking contrary.

I radio a general order to keep the hallways between the gate room and infirmary clear.  By the time I'm finished, Brody has returned with a kino sled in tow.  We push it through the gate, and then we wait.

A few minutes later, the away team bursts through the Stargate all as a group.  The kino sled is surrounded on all sides, with TJ in front, Greer on one side and Dunning and Eli on the other, and Scott pushing from the rear.  And you're on the sled, jerking, writhing and twisting like something possessed.  It takes the combined efforts of Greer, Dunning, and Eli to hold you in place. 

On your way out of the gate room, I catch a glimpse of your face.  Your expression is tortured, eyes wide and terrified.  Your skin has taken on a distinct bluish-purple hue.  Your neck is swollen and covered in blotchy red patches.  I've never seen a case of anaphylaxis before, but I've seen strangulation victims, and they looked just like you do now.

There's nothing else I can do to help you, so that's when I start to feel the fear, to realize that it's _you_.  Oh _fuck._ It's you. 

Beside me, Brody breathes out a soft curse.  "That looked really bad," he says.

I can't speak.  I'm caught in the grip of that terrible sense of clarity that never seems to arrive until long after it's of any use to me.  I'm thinking of you, with your pretty face and your bloody hands and your bright burst of laughter.  You, who saved my life and stole my breath and touched my face so unexpectedly.   I've always pictured us as binary stars performing an intricate dance against the backdrop of a perilous universe.  I used to be afraid that someday we would become unmoored from our elliptical orbits and crash together in a blaze of light and heat.  Now I'm afraid that day will never come.

I always figure things out too late.

A few minutes later, Eli's voice snaps me out of my paralysis.  "It was just a little bug," he says, sounding breathless and distressed.  I turn to see him leaning against the wall just within the room.  His face is sweaty and his eyes are wide with residual shock.  "Just a tiny little wasp-type-thing.  Greer and Dunning got stung too, and it didn't do a thing to them.  Greer said he barely even felt it.  Then Rush gets stung and he breaks out in this rash and next thing we know, he's on the ground shaking and fighting to breathe.  It happened so _fast_."

"I have a cousin who's allergic to peanuts," Brody comments.  "Hits him just like that.  He almost died once."

None of this is terribly reassuring, but at least it gives me something to do.  "We need to sweep this room, the hallways, and the infirmary and make sure none of those bugs came back with you.  Eli, check your clothing and anything you brought back with you from the planet, and then go back to the infirmary and make sure the others do, too.   I assume TJ is keeping Greer and Dunning there for observation?"

"Yeah."

"Good.  Go tell them."  As Eli heads back out of the room, I radio Scott to order him back to the infirmary, and then tell James to get a team together to sweep the ship for tiny flying insects.  It's a bit like telling her to go hunting for needles in haystacks, but I'm not worried about being reasonable at the moment.

You're fighting for your life.  I'm allowed to be a little unreasonable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are very welcome, and please come visit me on [tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

It's 0100 hours, and I'm not asleep.  Not a chance of that.  Instead, I'm sitting on my couch watching the streaming starlight play over every surface of the room and trying to think of anything but you.  I'm trying not to think of the sight of your writhing limbs, or your blue-tinged skin, or your bulging eyes.  I'm trying not to dwell on the danger that still threatens you hours after you swept through the Stargate on that kino sled.  But in spite of all my efforts to distract myself, you keep creeping in at the edges of my thoughts, quickening my pulse and making my whole body shake with the urge to move, to act, to overcome. 

I've received just two updates from the infirmary since you were transported there.  Both came from Chloe, since TJ has been occupied nonstop with your care.  According to Chloe, a few hours ago you flatlined for several seconds, but then you came back.  Which is appropriate, if somewhat terrifying.  You always come back.

Rush.   _Rush_.  Please.  You _always_ come back. 

"Colonel."

I freeze, gripping the edge of my couch.  That's TJ's weary voice coming through my radio.  If TJ is calling me, that means one of two things: either you're finally out of danger... or you're gone.

"Yeah," is all I manage to say in response.  My voice sounds strange.  Hollow.

"He's stable," TJ says, and all the breath leaves my body in a dizzying rush, a sudden release of hours' worth of tension.  The relief is so all-consuming that I almost miss her next few words.  "For _now_.  Relapses are pretty common with anaphylaxis, especially when it's this bad.  It was... it was _really_ bad, Colonel." 

She sounds thoroughly drained and just a little bit broken.  I recognize the tiny waver in her voice, that hint of unshed tears, and I know her eyes must be red.  That's how I know how close it was, and how hard she fought for you.

"Thanks, TJ," I whisper.  "May I...?"  I trail off,  not sure how to finish the question.  Not sure I want to reveal how much this means to me.  Not yet.  Not to her.

But she knows.  Of course she knows.  She can recognize the signs of attachment, the clumsy efforts at tenderness, the sentiments I don't know how to express aloud.  She's probably suspected it much longer than I have.  "Yeah, you can come see him now," she murmurs. "He's asleep, but you can see him."

"Thanks," I say again, hoping it's enough.  Hoping she can hear the true depth of my gratitude in my voice, because I don't have words eloquent enough to describe it to her.  "I'm on my way."

 

* * *

 

When I arrive, the first thing I see is TJ, backlit by the glow of the infirmary lights.  Her gold-crowned head is bowed slightly as she stares down at a display on an open laptop.  I can't help thinking she looks like a guardian angel, victorious but subdued in the aftermath of a bloody conflict.

"You look exhausted," I say, approaching her.

She lifts her head and smiles wanly at me.  "Long day.  You don't look too great either."

"Long day," I echo.  I glance down at the laptop screen.  TJ is using the science team's Ancient translator program to comb through the ship's medical database.  "So what happened, exactly?"

TJ shakes her head slowly, looking from me to the laptop and then to the far side of the room, where you are lying motionless.  Chloe is sitting on the cot next to yours, watching you.  She looks almost as tired as TJ.  Greer and Dunning are nowhere to be seen, so I assume that TJ has already released them.

"I'm not sure," TJ says.  "He shouldn't have reacted like that from first exposure.  Either we've encountered those bugs before on another planet – not impossible, given that they could have migrated from planet to planet on alien ships just like some species have migrated from continent to continent on Earth – or their venom is similar enough to something Rush was exposed to on Earth or some other planet that it caused a reaction.  For all we know, Rush could be deathly allergic to bee stings, for instance, and he might not even be aware of it if he's only been stung once."

"Does that mean it could happen again, if something else stings him?" I ask.

TJ looks back down at the data on the laptop screen and sighs.  She gives a helpless shrug.  "I don't really know.  He should probably take precautions, just in case.  I'm going to add some new equipment and medicinal compounds to my field kit, and I'll give him a few things to carry with him when he visits planets, too.  If it does happen again, we'll be much better prepared next time."

"Good."

TJ closes the laptop screen in front of her.  "My eyes won't even focus on the text anymore," she admits, turning to me.  "Can you do me a favor?  Send Chloe to bed.  She's been in here working nearly as long as I have, and she's completely worn out."

"So are you," I point out gently. 

"Believe me, I know," she says, closing her eyes briefly before blinking them back open.  She rubs at her forehead, so I'm guessing she has a headache in addition to her exhaustion. "I'm going to lie down and shut my eyes while you're with Rush.  Just wake me before you leave, okay?  Someone needs to monitor him at all times."

"Will do," I promise.  "Go rest."

I leave her to stretch out on one of the nearby cots while I join Chloe at your bedside.  Chloe's head is tilted to one side and her eyes are unfocused.  I don't like seeing her like that.  It reminds me too much of when she was changing, becoming something _other_.  But when I sit down beside her and touch her shoulder, she snaps back with a little start. 

"Colonel," she says, blinking much as TJ had done just a few moments before.  "Hi."

"Hey, Chloe," I murmur.  "You need to go to bed.  Doctor's orders."

She rubs at her eyes and draws in a deep breath before letting it out.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I know.  In a few minutes."

"Go on," I urge.  "I'll watch him.  He'll be fine."

She looks at me uncertainly. 

"Go."

With obvious reluctance, Chloe slides off the cot.  She throws one last apprehensive look in your direction, as if she expects you to flatline again as soon as turns her back on you, and then she starts to walk away.  She hasn't even rounded the edge of the cot yet when she pauses and turns back toward me.

"He came to visit you, you know," she says softly.

For a few moments I just stare at her, completely at a loss.  "What?  When?"

"When you were shot on that planet," she elaborates.  "The one with the ruins and the mantis aliens.  You almost died."

"He saved my life," I say and suddenly realize that it's the first time I've said those words out loud.  I've thanked you, but I've never specified for what, exactly.  I've never fully acknowledged your role in bringing me back from the brink.  This vocal confirmation of my debt to you feels like a solid thing – a mended link within a thick chain, stronger than ever it was before it broke.

"I was there when the rest of the team caught up with you on the planet," Chloe murmurs, glancing back toward your sleeping form.  "At first I thought you were both dead.  He was _covered_ in blood.  Of course, all of it turned out to be _your_ blood, but you weren't dead either.  He could have left you right where you fell.  He could have regrouped with the rest of us.  It would have been the sensible thing to do under the circumstances." 

She brushes a few strands of hair out of her eyes and smiles grimly, still looking at you.  "When you were in here recovering, he visited you a couple times.  You were asleep, I think.  I spotted him curled up on the bed next to yours, just writing in his notebook like it was no big deal."

"Why would he do that?" I ask, hardly able to wrap my head around the mental picture of you working at my bedside while I slept.

"I think..." she pauses, then looks back at me with her head tipped to one side.  "I think maybe he wanted to understand."

"Understand?"

"Why he did what he did," she says.  "Why he risked his life to save yours when retreat seemed like a better option."

Ah.  Yes.  Yes, that sounds like you.  Give you a knotty little problem and you'll pluck away at it single-mindedly until you solve it.  It would be an endearing quality if you weren't usually so bullheaded and reckless about it.

"And did he figure it out?" I ask.

She smiles again, and this time the expression warms her face and softens her eyes.  She looks young and hopeful, less worn down by grief and fear.  "I think he's still looking for answers.  He'll get there eventually."

I feel myself returning her smile, and it feels good.  It feels so good after the day I've just had.  "I'm already there, I think."

"I know," she says with a little nod of encouragement.  "That's why I'm telling you this."

"Thanks, Chloe."

She waves off my thanks with an airy gesture.  Then her eyes go back to you, and her expression sobers immediately.  I see her swallow and then draw in a quick, shallow breath, as if she's suppressing a sob.

"Chloe," I say in the same quiet, firm tone I've used countless times on panicking soldiers under my command, "he's okay.  He pulled through.  He always does."

"He always does," she repeats, still watching your sleeping form.

"Go to bed.  I've got this."

She nods again, then flashes a quick, slightly watery smile in my direction.  "Of course you do.  I'm sorry, it's just… it's been a bad day."

And that's when I feel a lump rise in my own throat in answer to her unshed tears, and I have to look away.  I nod, staring at the floor.  It has been a bad day.  We have no shortage of them on Destiny.  But you're still here, so it could have been much worse.

"Good night," Chloe says.  She doesn't wait for a response.  Perhaps she knows I can't speak right now.

When she's gone, I lift my eyes to your face.  You look older and paler than usual, and your neck is still slightly swollen and covered in small, red welts.  It's not your best look, but it's such a welcome difference from how you looked earlier this evening that I'll take it. 

"You scared the hell out of me, Rush," I whisper into the quiet room, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest.  Breathing.  Breathing is good.  "Let's not do that again."

Your right hand rests temptingly at the edge of your cot.  I reach out and take it gently in my left.  Your fingers twitch and curl in your sleep, but you show no signs of waking, so I lace our fingers together and enjoy the reassuring warmth of your palm against mine. 

It's strange how daring this feels.  I've never held your hand before.

I sit there on that cot for the rest of the night with your hand lightly clasped in mine.  I tell myself I'm doing it for TJ, since she's so tired and she needs the sleep so desperately.  But I know better than that.  I'm doing it for me, because I need this.  I need to feel your skin, and I need to watch you breathe, and I need to tell myself over and over again that I'm not too late.  Not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated. And be sure to come visit me on [tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/).


	6. Chapter 6

The next day passes in a sleep-deprived haze punctuated by moments of residual anxiety.  I need rest, but I have too many obligations, too many problems calling for my immediate attention, and too much damn paperwork.  I don't have the luxury of falling into bed and dreaming away the impression left by all those hours of fear and desperation.  The memory of my own dread haunts me, sending periodic jolts of adrenaline through my system.  As if you were still in danger.  As if it were a danger I could save you from.

It's evening by the time I'm able to visit the infirmary again.  TJ greets me in the doorway, casually blocking my entry.  I blink at her, tired and confused and certain that I'm missing something.  She waves me aside, so I take a step back, and she joins me out in the hall.

"He's much better," she says in a low voice, and now my befogged brain catches up.  She just wants to have this conversation out of your hearing range.  "He has his color back, and the swelling has gone down.  The welts on his neck are healing too.  I think he's fine, but I'm keeping him under observation for one more night, mostly to ensure that he gets more rest.  But he's not happy about it.  I need to check on some things in hydroponics, but I'm afraid the moment I leave, he'll bolt."

"Go ahead," I tell her.  "I'll stay."

She runs her eyes over me in a quick assessment.  "Are you sure?  I feel like I should call someone else.  You need sleep as much as he does."

I know it, but I also need to see you.  To quiet that part of my mind still jumping at shadows, if for no other reason.

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are," TJ says, and I can't tell from her tone whether her comment is intended as sarcasm or genuine agreement. She jerks her head toward the other end of the hallway.  "I'll just be twenty minutes or so."

"Take your time."

She nods and, after a brief moment of apparent indecision, walks away.

When I enter the infirmary, I find you propped up on your cot with a pencil in one hand and a notepad in the other.  Your head is bent forward and your face is obscured by a curtain of grizzled hair.  I remember all the times I've seen you just like this, hunched over a console and focused on your work, and I can't help but smile.  It's just what I needed to see to banish the last lingering ghosts of fear.

"Rush."

You look up, hair in your eyes, pencil poised over paper.  "I didn't hear you come in," you say, and your voice has a slight rasp to it.  There's an unsettled expression in your eyes as they scan me.  "You look terrible."

I chuckle, and that brings a small smile to your lips.  "Well, one of us got a full night's sleep, but it sure as hell wasn't me," I say.

"I heard," you murmur.  Your smile lingers, and after a moment you scoot over to the far edge of your cot, leaving a space just large enough for me to join you on it. 

At first I don't even move, I'm so startled by the gesture and so uncertain of its intended meaning.  But then you lift your brows expectantly, as if to say, _yes, it's exactly what it looks like_ , and so I approach.  When you show no sign of changing your mind, I sit down beside you. Our shoulders rub against one another, and our elbows knock together awkwardly, but you don't seem bothered by it.  You tilt your head to look at me, and you are so _close_.  If I leaned forward even a little bit, I could be kissing you right now.

Suddenly my pulse quickens and I feel a disconcerting fluttering sensation in my stomach.  I want to touch you.  _Really_ touch you.  Not just the tantalizing brush of my sleeve against yours, but the warm press of skin against skin and the soft slide of your hair between my fingers.  I want to know what it feels like to contain all your sinewy strength within my arms and how it feels to be held in yours.  I want to know what your skin tastes like and what your pleasure sounds like.  I want to see your expression as you savor your afterglow.  I want to know everything about you. 

"What are we doing here, Rush?" I ask, because it's so much safer than any of the other questions knocking about inside my head right now.  And yet, judging by the gravity with which you receive and ponder it, it's not really a safe question at all.

Your brows draw together in thought and your eyes shift slightly to one side.  You tap your pencil against your paper, beating out a complicated rhythm.  I watch you, making the most of this opportunity to study your face in detail.  All your knobs and edges, all of the lines etched into your skin.  Taken separately, I wouldn't call any one feature beautiful, but together they form a striking picture. 

You look back at me, and your lips curve into that subtle smile again.  The lines at the corners of your eyes deepen in amusement.  "We're trying something new," you say with a half-shrug. 

"Okay," I say, nodding slowly,  "And this new thing… how's it working out for us?"

You huff out a breath, disturbing a few wayward strands of hair.  "Results are inconclusive."

"Not from where I'm sitting."

You wave me off, your expression caught between reproach and something that looks very much like fondness.  "Because you rely on gut instinct rather than thorough analysis."

"Rush," I say dryly, "you have no _idea_ how much analyzing I've been doing recently."

Your brows go up, inviting me to elaborate.  But I'm not in the mood to talk about all those months spent in bewildered contemplation of your various attributes, culminating in an eleventh hour revelation.  I shake my head and say instead, "So what _have_ you managed to come up with, then?"

That's when your eyes shutter and your face goes blank. That smile, that touch of humor, that sense of being partners in some strange new experience, all disappear.  But I know you well enough by now to realize that you're not closing me out because you want this conversation to be over.  You'd make some unpleasant comment, hit me right where it hurts and try to rouse my temper if that were the case.  It's just fear, isn't it?   I understand the fear, Rush.  You don't want any of this to be real.  If it's real, it can hurt you.  You probably think you've been hurt enough, and I can't really blame you for that.

You look down at your notepad.  Strike through a line of figures with one sharp pencil stroke.  Write in a few more, and circle them.  Your face is hidden by your hair, but I can imagine the tightness of your mouth, the intensity of your eyes. 

"I am certain of only two things," you say, and your tone is very even, very precise.  You add a few more notations to the page, and the movements of your hand betray the agitation that your voice does not.  If you jab at that paper any harder, you'll break your pencil. 

"And what are they?"  I prompt when it becomes clear that you have no immediate plans to say more.

Your hand stills.  "I know that I want you," you say finally, and your voice goes just a bit breathy on 'want.' 

I swallow.  "That's a good start," I say.  "That's… we can definitely work with that."

You laugh softly, head still bowed.

"What was the second thing?" I ask.

"The second thing," you repeat, and then you pause.  Your pencil moves across the page, scratching out another set of numbers.  The motion is more fluid, less sharp this time.  "The second thing," you begin again, "Is that if you were to die… well."

"Well?"

You tip your head and peer up at me from an angle.  "Well I wouldn't be bloody pleased, all right?" you finish, grimacing.

"That's quite a concession, Rush," I say dryly.  "I'm comforted to know that you won't be throwing any parties if I kick the bucket."

"Fuck off."  You drop the pencil and sling your right arm across your chest, grasping your other bicep.  It's a defensive posture that I've seen you assume before under very different circumstances. "I'd be gutted, okay?" you murmur.

I feel that fluttering sensation again.  It makes it a little difficult to breathe.  "Okay," I say softly, thinking of bloody hands and nighttime vigils. "Okay. I feel the same."

You draw in a deep breath and let it out in a shaky sigh.  We sit in silence for a while, sharing warmth where our shoulders and thighs touch, but making no move toward each other.  You stare straight ahead at the opposite wall.  I watch your profile, waiting for a sign.

It feels like something momentous has just taken place on this narrow cot.  A battle finished, an armistice signed, all our weapons lain on the ground and our hands held up in surrender.  It's not the end of our problems.  Oh, no.  You and I, we were born to be at odds, our opposing wills throwing off sparks like clashing blades.  But perhaps from now on we'll just call it 'foreplay,' and we'll resolve our conflicts in a different kind of struggle.

You finally turn toward me, and that little smile is tugging at the corners of your mouth again.  Relief and desire slam into me, and I can't restrain myself anymore.  I lean forward and press my lips to that beautiful, reassuring smile.

You make a throaty sound of approval, and the kiss quickly transitions from gentle and tender to heated and exploratory.  I wrap my arms around your waist, pulling you closer until you're practically sitting in my lap.  Then I slide my hands under your t-shirt and over your back.  Your hands are in my hair and your tongue is in my mouth and your skin is warm and soft under my fingertips, and it's perfect.  It's all perfect.

And I know you haven't found the words to define this yet.  You think that the moment you dare to call it love, it will be taken away from you.  I get that.  I do.  I don't need to hear you say it out loud.  I don't care if you refuse even to contemplate your true feelings for me in the secret, unlit corners of your mind.  Believe me, Rush, I'm scared too.  I'm tempted to hesitate, to question my own desires, even now.  But this is worth the risk.  This is worth the possibility of failure and loss.  This is something so rare and strange and incredible that we would be utter fools to give it up.

This is just the way we are.  We're revolving around a common center, crossing each other's orbits, becoming more erratic with every near miss.  We've never known how our association would change us, only that it would.  But now we're  beginning to understand it.  Now we set aside everything that held us back and prepare for the next step.  Now we watch something end, and something else begin.

Now, we collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has followed the progress of this series. Your comments and kudos have meant so much to me. 
> 
> If you're interested in seeing updates about my other writing projects (along with a lot of general fandom squeeing), come visit me on [tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/).


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